


High in the Deep

by Tipofmytongue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Drugs, F/M, Family, Hospitals, Love, M/M, Post-A Study In Pink, Post-Season/Series 03, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:28:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipofmytongue/pseuds/Tipofmytongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John haven't heard from Sherlock in four weeks and misses him, but he knows that they will see eachother on his daughter's 4th birthday. When Sherlock, however, fails to turn up, John starts worrying. He goes to Baker Street to see if Sherlock is there, but what meets him in the living room will affect him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High in the Deep

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother language. Bear with me.  
> Please leave a feedback!

**HIGH IN THE DEEP**

John hadn’t heard from Sherlock in three weeks, and he missed him profoundly. He knew that they would see each other in a couple of days though, seeing as it was Sarah’s 4th birthday and thus far Sherlock had proven to be an amazing godfather. Despite his reluctance towards the term godfather he had taken on the task with utmost pride. Both John and Mary knew that they couldn’t have asked for a better godparent. Sherlock had taken Sarah with him to playgrounds practically all over London, and once, when he was babysitting on John and Mary’s 2nd anniversary, they had come back to Baker Street to find Sherlock playing ‘deductions’ with Sarah by the means of her two favourite teddy bears, both which had been explicitly picked out by Sherlock at London’s most expensive baby store. Sherlock had turned out to be a godfather more fantastic than John could ever have imagined. And this had made him even more, if possibly, fond of Sherlock than he already was. He also knew that he himself was one of the most, if not _the_ most, important people in Sherlock’s life. Sherlock had proven that time and again throughout the years; first with his faked suicide, then when he’d shot Magnussen. But the way he cared for and loved his daughter had been the most beautiful and manifested confirmation of their friendship that John could possibly wish for. He thought of Sherlock sitting on the floor, playing violin for Sarah, while sending genuine smiles to John now and then. Sometimes John would watch them for several minutes, almost without taking a breath, afraid to destroy the beautiful moment.

Now John was pacing restless around in his flat, almost breathless. Mary was sitting on the floor playing with Sarah. Just like Sherlock always did when he was visiting.  
“Why don’t you just call him if you miss him so much?” she asked John, then went back to high pitching her voice to the amusement of her daughter.  
“I have. He’s not responding.”  
“Well, there’s nothing abnormal about that.” Mary shrugged. “But you could just run over there. Dinner’s not for another hour or so.”  
“No, that’s fine.” John smiled, and sat down on the floor next to his child and wife and kissed the latter.  
“Have you ordered a cake for Sarah’s birthday yet?” John asked.  
“Cake!” Sarah cried with a broad smile on her face and the adults started laughing.  
“Yes, I’ve gotten her a C – H – O – C – K – L – A – T – E one.” Mary replied after the laughter had died. John looked at them both, still smiling, thinking that he should be one of the luckiest men alive. However, his thoughts drifted towards his best friend whom he sorely missed and his joy faded with the leftovers of his smile.

***

The day before Sarah’s birthday, John tried calling Sherlock once again, and once again the recipient remained silent. With a slight worry John dialled Mrs. Hudson’s number and after three rings she picked up.  
“Hello?”  
“Mrs. Hudson, it’s John.”  
“John! How are you, dear?”  
“Good, how are you?”  
“I’m fine. I’ve just started taking these new medications for my head aches, you know I hit my head in the cupboard the other day and I got this huge bump, so the doctor gave me these new pain pills, let me see, they’re called…”  
“Yeah, well, that’s great, have you heard from Sherlock?”  
“Sherlock? No, haven’t seen him around for weeks, but he said he was leaving for a while due to a very important case.”  
“Case? Did he tell you what it was?”  
“No, he was very secretive, funny he didn’t ask you to join him. Apparently it was something big. But he told me not to worry, and that he’d be back to celebrate your daughter.”  
“Great. Thanks. Oh yeah. You are also welcome course, sorry I forgot to, er, invite you.”  
“Thanks a lot, dear. Now if you –“  
“Bye, Mrs. Hudson.”  
John hung up the phone and his worries lifted slightly. Obviously Sherlock was out on a case. That did happen sometimes, that he needed to disappear for hours and days. John thought back to the month when he and Mary had been on their honeymoon and Sherlock had gone so-called undercover and started taking drugs again. It had all been for a case, he’d claimed. Well, he was probably undercover now as well, but John couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t been asked to join in. After all, they’d kept on solving cases en mass despite the fact that John had settled and entered the domestic bliss, as Mycroft would call it. John could feel every inch of him longing for adrenaline. Longing for mystery, for danger. For Sherlock. Very well, he’d see him tomorrow at least.

***

John was gift-wrapping his daughter’s present – a tiny car that she could ride around the living room – when Mary entered the flat. She walked over to John, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and lovingly mocked his gift-wrapping abilities. She showed him all the birthday stash she’d bought for Sarah and together they spent the rest of the evening decorating the flat.  
“Have you heard from Sherlock yet?” Mary asked while they were putting up balloons in green and purple – Sarah’s favourite colours.  
“No.” John replied sadly. “But Mrs. Hudson told me he’s out on a big case, and that he’ll come for Sarah’s birthday.”  
“Then what’s with the sad face, then?” Mary asked, moving a finger down John’s chin.  
“Oh. Sorry. I guess I miss him. I mean I miss hanging out, solving cases. I don’t get why he didn’t want me to come with him on this one.”  
“Never mind that. He’s Sherlock. Wouldn’t be Sherlock if he wasn’t playing some tricks now and then. Now, would you hand me two green ones?”  
John handed her the requested items together with a slight smile, which he hoped would camouflage the fact that he felt as deflated as these balloons would be in a couple of days.

***

Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, Harry and even Janine had turned up for Sarah’s birthday. The clock was a quarter past two, and John wondered where the hell Sherlock was. He was never late, and especially not when things regarded his godchild. Sarah was clapping and cheering over the gifts she’d received; Mrs. Hudson had bought her a lovely dark green dress, Mike, oblivious to the fact that four year old girls don’t use baby toys, had given her exactly that; a baby toy. Janine had bought her a jewellery set that was immediately put on, Lestrade had gotten her a magnifier, Harry’d bought her a set of very masculine pants, (“There’s no such thing as boys’ and girls’ clothing!") and Molly had managed to give her a lab coat for children, along with a tiny microscope. Sarah was thrilled.  
John was completely distant, and it wasn’t until Mary announced that it was time to cut the cake that he re-emerged from his deep emotional crater.  
“Are you ready for your cake, sweetie?” she asked her daughter, and all the adults gathered around to revel in her cuteness.  
“Where’s uncle Sherlock?” Sarah replied with a puzzled look on her face. “We can’t cut the cake without uncle Sherlock!”  
“He’ll be around later, sweetie.” Mary comforted and turned around to look at John. A slight worry established itself upon her face. John, having tried to ignore his discomfort regarding Sherlock’s absence, felt his heart do a somersault: If Mary was worried then something clearly wasn’t right.  
The birthday party lasted for another hour and a half, by which time Sarah was so exhausted after all the impressions, gifts and sugar that she fell asleep in Lestrade’s lap. Mary slowly lifted her into her bedroom and as she re-emerged to the living room the others were already in fully blossomed discussion about Sherlock.  
“Haven’t seen him in ages.” Lestrade expressed. “Been calling him a couple of times about a murder, a cool one at that, but he hasn’t responded.”  
“He came to my flat four weeks ago or something.” Molly said. “He said he needed a place to spend the night. I figured one of his experiments had poisoned Baker Street or something.”  
“He spent the night?” John said disapprovingly, his eyebrows lifted. Mary glanced at him.  
“Yeah, in my bedroom. Not with me in it of course! He isn’t like that.” Molly said, obviously embarrassed.  
  
John didn’t know how to respond. He only withdrew from the others and entered the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked pale and sick. Sherlock had only spent the night at Molly’s two times before, both when he was feeling really down and needed somewhere to disappear. Combined with the fact that he’d failed to answer his phone for the last month made John sick to his stomach. He picked up his phone and dialled Sherlock’s number, already knowing the outcome of this desperate action.  
_“You have unsuccessfully tried to reach Sherlock Holmes, high functioning sociopath, consultant detective and proud godfather. You have probably deduced that this is my voice mail. Leave a message and I will get back to you if you are interesting.”_  
“Sherlock. This is John. I’m worried about you. You missed Sarah’s birthday. Please call back. I hope you find me interesting enough for that. Heh… God, Sherlock. I miss you. Please call.”  
He put the phone down onto the sink and saw Mary’s reflection in the mirror.  
“I’m sure he’s fine, John.” she said, slowly walking into the bathroom. John could tell that she wanted to put her hands around him, but that she was somewhat reluctant to do so.  
“You don’t think he’s fine.” John said, blinking furiously, his head facing the wall. “I saw your face earlier. You think something’s happened. You have a sixth sense for these things.”  
“Fine. Yes, well. I think it’s weird that he misses out on his goddaughter’s birthday, when he’s failed to be absent on any other occasion. Even her 20th month day, that's not even a real thing. That, combined with the fact that he hasn’t been in touch in a month… well, yeah, I’m kind of worried, too, John.”  
“Fuck.” John said. Mary moved closer to him, her hands still not knowing precisely where to be, until she put her right hand on John’s back, the other reaching for his phone.  
“What are you doing?” John asked, trying to succumb to the feeling of Mary’s soft touch.  
“I sent the others home, by the way. I told them you’d call.”  
“And who are you calling now?”  
“Mycroft. I'm calling Mycroft.”

 

***

“Yes.” Mycroft’s slippery voice echoed through the phone.  
“Hi. This is Mary. Mary Watson.”  
“Mary, good day.”  
“Hi. You haven’t heard from Sherlock lately, have you?”  
“Sherlock? No, I’m afraid I haven’t.” Mycroft answered coolly. “Why?” Planning on shooting him again, are we?”  
“The same joke after four years, brilliant Mycroft. No, we haven’t heard from him in a while, and you happen to have him at level three surveillance. You would know where he is for sure, I bet.”  
“Not this time, I’m afraid. I degraded the surveillance after my brother requested some privacy. And I, being a merciful relative, yielded.”  
“When was this?”  
“A moon cycle ago, I would estimate.”  
“You twat.”  
“I beg your pardon?!”  
“Bye, Mycroft.”  
Mary hung up the phone, an expression on her face that John had only seen once before: The night in Leinster Gardens when Mary realised that John had heard her entire conversation with Sherlock.  
“What is it?” John blurted.  
“John, I think Sherlock is in some serious trouble.”

***

The taxi drive to Baker Street took forever. The streets were crammed with London tourists who were spending Saturday nights watching musicals and drinking lagers at real English pubs. So typical, John thought as the streetlights flew by in slow motion. The cabbie was relaxed and through the plastic glass John could hear the low humming of the song _Touch Me_. Of all absurd things. After what seemed like a life time and then some, the taxi pulled around the corner to Baker Street and drove down towards 221B. John jumped out and almost forgot to pay the cabbie. He put the key in the lock and let himself in to the familiar house. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home. John ascended the stairs and stood before the entrance to his old flat. He put the second key in its keyhole and opened the door. He could immediately see that the flat was even dustier than what it normally was. He went into the kitchen. No bizarre experiments were occupying the table. It felt strangely unfamiliar to him. He’d never seen the kitchen this tidy. He opened the fridge. No heads, no maggots, no body parts of any kind; just an old carton of milk, which had expired three weeks before.  
“Fuck.” John said out loud, his pulse rising. Where the hell was Sherlock?  
John walked into the living room and glanced around. No sign of life anywhere. Then John saw it: An envelope on John’s old chair. His heart did a somersault for the second time today. A mixture of adrenaline and pure fear overtook him so hard that he couldn’t move for a whole minute. He just stared at the envelope. When he finally could feel his legs again, he walked slowly towards the envelope and almost didn’t dare touch it, as though it was burning. But if there was something burning in this room it was John’s insides. He lifted up the envelope and put it up towards his nose and inhaled. A weak though warm and familiar scent filled his nostrils with force. Sherlock’s hands had held this envelope, but not only casually. His scent wouldn’t have jammed itself like this. No, Sherlock had held it tightly against his chest for at least fifteen minutes, John deduced, in order for the scent to still remain attached to the envelope after all this time. What kind of emotion would cause Sherlock to do that, John wondered, worry and fear rising rapidly in him. Slowly, as though not to destroy the envelope and hence the feeling of destroying Sherlock himself, John started opening it with the help of a pin from the mantelpiece. Slowly, carefully, his hands trembling. Inside the envelope was a letter. Obviously. John withdrew it, and once again the familiar scent of Sherlock filled his nostrils. He couldn’t tell whether it came from the envelope or if he was just imagining it. He inhaled deeply and opened the letter.

 

 

_My dearest John._

_I don’t want you to panic. I don’t want you to act unreasonable. The John Watson equation consists of three now, and you must act thereafter._  
_I am deeply sorry for what I’m about to do to you on an emotional level, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer._  
_I know that I’m a man of far too many words in the wrong situations and way too few in the face of true importance. I will try to improve the latter with this letter._

_John, I have left Baker Street for good. This is final, and there is nothing you nor anyone else can do about it._  
_I have lived all my life believing that people who are influenced by sentiment are weak. I have lived with the conviction that love and sentiment are unnecessary and that I have been privileged with being able to avoid it all together. I have proven myself right in the first point. As it turns out, I am not elevated when it comes to love. Possibly, seeing as I’ve lived a larger part of my life avoiding sentiment as much as I can, I am thus even weaker than others in the face of it._

_I’m a study in stupidity._

_Externally I am Sherlock Holmes, the stoic consultant detective with a former drug habit. Internally I am burning and freezing at the same time. It’s like a constant carousel ride of which I can never get off, and John, you know how much I hate carousels. (Remember our case at the Tivoli?)_

_I thought I could fight off these feelings. I thought I could put my friendly love for you, Mary and Sarah ahead of my own foolish longing and desperation. But I can’t any more. Being around you is literally destroying me. If you haven’t already deduced why, then you have become far too alike yours truly, and if that is the case then I am sorry. However, I am sure that you are the same John Watson whom I met at Bart’s. The same John Watson who is the kindest, bravest, nicest and most beautiful man I’ve ever had the fortune of meeting. The John Watson I’m so deeply in love with that I no longer can put my egoism aside for the sake of our friendship._  
_Solving crimes is no longer a lifestyle that can keep my feelings at bay._  
_Do not think of this as your fault. You have saved me. You have saved my life. I will retreat and remember that._

_I love you, John. Now, forget me and remember the equation._

_Yours truly,_  
_William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

_PS: I am deeply sorry that I won’t attend Sarah’s birthday. Opposite you, in my chair, you will find her birthday present. I hope she’ll like it and remember her godfather by it._

 

John read the last sentence of the letter and enclosed it in his hands. His face was wet with tears and his whole body was shivering. Sherlock loved him. He’d had no idea. Never. Why hadn’t he said anything before? And he’d vacated Baker Street. Where had he gone? John's head was so crowded with all this new information about his best friend that he could barely breathe. He reread the letter several times, and after the fourth time a struck of enlightenment arised, and the revelation hit him in the stomach like a punch worthy of Mike Tyson.

_Solving crimes is no longer a lifestyle that can keep my feelings at bay._

John let out a scream so loud that the even dust in the apartment of Baker Street shivered.

***

Mycroft Holmes was pacing around in his grand home. The walls of it felt like they were about to devour him. He sat down in his chair in front of the fireplace, a glass of whisky in his hands. The fourteen-year-old scotch didn’t taste as good as it normally did, and Mycroft knew why: He was worried about his brother. The phone call from Mary had startled him, although he hadn’t let her know that. It was all about appearances. After the phone call he’d immediately called his emergency surveillance guy whose job was to keep an eye on Sherlock, despise the latter’s request of being left alone. Mycroft’s minion had told him that he’d seen Sherlock boarding the southbound Hammersmith and City line some time ago. Mycroft looked into the sparkling fire, his mind racing rapidly. At that moment his phone rang, and its display showed that it was John Watson. Mycroft instantly knew that something was really, really wrong.  
“Yes.”  
“Mycroft, it’s John.”  
“Have you located my brother?”  
“Mycroft, I think he’s fallen off the wagon.”  
“Is that so?”  
“Yes. I went to Baker Street, and he’d vacated it.”  
“Vacated it, you say?”  
“Yes!”  
“And what makes you think he has resumed his drug habit?" At this question John went silent for a moment. “John? Do I need to repeat my question or is your silence one filled with remorse or perhaps even guilt?”  
“He’d left a note...”  
“I see.”  
“Mycroft, we got to find him.”  
“I’ve contacted someone who was supposed to keep Sherlock under a certain observation. You must know that his request for privacy is one that I could not possibly avoid interpreting as the arising of a problematic situation.”  
“Yes?”  
“Well, this individual had interpreted my task thither that he was to be contacted by me and not the other way around, the consequence being that his observations regarding Sherlock were reported to me today, and not four weeks ago when he last saw him.”  
“What?! What kind of stupid, bloody operation are you –“  
“Restrain yourself, John. This individual will, as from today and forever more, scrub toilets for the Tory MPs at the British Parliament, which, believe me, is a particularly unpleasant job. The food they eat –”  
“For Christ sake, Mycroft!”  
“Sherlock was... observed boarding the Hammersmith and City line at Baker Street heading southwards. That was four weeks ago. I know nothing more, John.”  
“Christ… Well, okay. Bye then.”  
“John?”  
“Yes?”  
“Please find my brother. He is, despite everything, very dear to me.”  
“Yeah, well... To me as well.”  
“I believe your sentiment is of a different type than mine, John Watson.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Please find my brother. He needs you.”  
And with those words, Mycroft hung up. John stared at his phone, shocked. Even Mycroft was out of answers. But of course, if Sherlock really wanted to go under the radar he’d go under the radar, even though the radar belonged to the MI6. He turned around and picked up the little present that Sherlock had left for Sarah. The remains of a tear slid down his chin and onto his lips and left a salty taste. John put the letter in his backpack and left 221B Baker Street, begging that he would once return side by side with his best friend.

When he got home, John immediately told Mary what he’d discovered, except the part about Sherlock being in love with him. He didn’t know why he wouldn’t say it to her straight, but it felt a bit like he was cheating on her. He told her that he’d found out that Sherlock had started doing drugs again and that he’d left Baker Street. Mary reacted with a cry of shock and hugged her husband hard. John embraced her and despite how hard he was fighting the pressure behind his eyes, he couldn’t win that battle. Tears started sliding down his cheeks again, and when Mary noticed she hugged him even harder while she whispered words of comfort in his ear. Sarah emerged from her bedroom with the magnifier in her hand.  
“Where is uncle Sherlock?” she asked, her eyes wide with hope.  
“Sherlock has gone away for a while, sweetie.” John said, wiping his eyes with his back turned towards his daughter. After wiping himself relatively dry he fished out the little present that he’d collected at Baker Street. “But he left you this. It’s a birthday present.”  
On the present there was a little card attached. John removed the card and let Sarah open the present first. Inside was a tiny deerstalker cap, just like the one that had become Sherlock’s signature headgear.  
“Wow, Daddy, it’s uncle Sherlock’s detective hat!” Sarah cried and put it on immediately.  
“Yeah, yeah, it is.” John answered, holding back another flow of tears. Mary, however, couldn’t hide hers. John opened the card and read out loud.

_Dear Sarah._

_I_ _am so sorry that I cannot be there for your 4th birthday. But I’m guessing your mum and dad have celebrated you big time and given you lots of chocolate cake! I hope you like my present. Now your Daddy can teach you how to be a proper detective, and hopefully you will be just as good as he is. I’m very proud of you and I love you very much._

_Hugs and kisses,  
Uncle Sherlock._

Sarah started jumping around the living room with her hat and magnifier after John had finished reading her the letter. Mary looked at John, eyes widened.  
“Oh John…” she stuttered. “What are we going to do?”  
“I’m going to find him.”  
“How? He could be anywhere.”  
“I have to find him, Mary.”  
Mary was silent for a moment before she answered.  
“I know you do, John. I know.”  
“...”  
“How though? How are you going to find him?”  
“I think it’s time to make use of the famous Homeless Network.” John said determined.

***

John emerged from the tube station near Waterloo Bridge where he knew some of Sherlock’s homeless associates usually hung out. He had to look around for a while before he found one of them, a woman in her early thirties who had helped them solve a case once. He approached her with caution, not knowing whether or not she was under the influence of something.  
“Excuse me, hi there, you remember me?” John asked, his hand on his gun in his back pocket.  
“You can remove your hand from there, I’m not gonna hurt you, Johnny. Got a dime?”  
“I’ll give you the contents of my whole wallet if you can tell me where Sherlock is.”  
“Sherlock? What makes you think I’ve seen 'im?”  
“Just answer the question.” John knew his impatience could be a problem in this particular search.  
“Well… He came around one of the back streets close to St. Mungo’s some weeks ago. Wondered what the heck he was doin’ there, having stopped usin’ an’ all. But there he was, cashing in ol’ favours.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“People, my people, gave him drugs. I thought he’d kicked it, but you know, we’re all just a crisis away from dyin’.”  
“What kind of drugs did he ask for?” John asked her, mentally crossing his fingers that it only was marihuana. The look on the woman’s eyes revealed as much as her words though and John felt his stomach in his throat.  
“Heroine mostly. Some weed.”  
“Jesus fucking fucker’s Christ fuck.” John cried.  
“No need to take the Lord’s name in vain.” the woman said, looking at John with disgust. “So, gonna give me your wallet then?”  
John gave her the three ten pound bills in his wallet before he stormed away from her so that he could throw up in privacy.

***

The tube ride to Hammersmith felt like light years and when he finally arrived, he was mentally exhausted from all the horrible scenarios he’d been picturing in his mind during the train ride. He exited the tube station and headed towards St. Mungo’s. He knew for sure that Sherlock wouldn’t actually be inside, but he hoped with all his might that someone inside there would know about his whereabouts and that it wouldn’t be too late. He entered and gazed upon a dozen homeless people, hoping to see someone familiar. In the opposite corner he saw a man he remembered seeing at the den where he’d once picked up Isaac Whitney. He walked over to him and sat down at his table.  
“Hi. Excuse me. I wondered if I could ask you something. A friend of mine is missing.”  
“Which friend? Lots of people go around getting themselves missed at this place.”  
“His name is Sherlock. His tall, er, dark-haired, curly, er, handsome…”  
“Yearh, yearh, I know him. Have been meetin' him a couple of blocks away, yeah, helping him to some stash. Quite needy fella.”  
“Where? When did you see him?”  
“Used to see him every day, but haven’t seen him in two weeks now. Said something about a study or something.”  
“A study?”  
“Yeah. Can’t remember quite… gotta be, oh, what is it, A study in something…”  
“A study in pink?”  
“Hell yeah, that’s it, mate! A study in pink! No idea what the heck that means though.”  
“Thanks! Thank you!” John said loudly and got up, ready to leave. He remembered the letter from Sherlock, which now lay safely in his backpack.

_I’m a study in stupidity.  
You have saved my life. I will retreat and remember that._

John knew where to look. As he was about to exit St. Mungo’s, he was held back by the man.  
“Hey, you’re that John fella, aren’t you?”  
“Yeah, why?”  
“Couldn’t let yourself go, couldn’t you? You just couldn’t let yourself go.”  
The man got up and patted John on the shoulder.  
“I hope you find him. He was pretty darned fucked up.”

John stood outside St. Mungo’s, waiting. Mycroft’s car would arrive any second. John had phoned Mycroft, Mary and Lestrade immediately after he’d left the shelter, explaining what he thought about Sherlock’s whereabouts. He’d wanted Mary to come along, as her skills as a former Intelligence Agent would probably be useful. Three minutes later the black government car pulled up in front of him, and Anthea, Mycroft’s most trusted minion, stepped out of it and let John enter. She remained behind, because the car was crowded as it is with Mycroft, Lestrade and Mary already being inside. John put his backpack on the floor of the car.  
“I’ve already called for help. Anderson and his Empty Hearse gang are all coming along. They are going by tube.” Mycroft said, trying to comfort John, who obviously was horrified by the entire situation.  
“Good” was all John was able to utter.  
After a while, Mary spoke, her eyes fixed on John.  
“Where are we going exactly?”  
“To a college.” Mycroft answered before John had a chance to speak, and John was grateful that he didn’t have to and at the same time amused that Mycroft already knew where they were going. John had only given him the name of the street. Mycroft had deduced it then. He and his brother were intellectually spitting images of one another.  
“A college?” Mary replied.  
“Or to be even more specific; The Roland Kerr Further Education College.”  
“Why?” Mary asked, puzzled. Mycroft glanced quickly over at John as if he understood that this was John’s question to answer. That this mattered.  
“Because…” John said, inhaling deeply. “...that’s where Sherlock and I solved our first case together. Where I saved his life for the first time.”  
“Oh.” Mary said. She opened her mouth as to say something else, but closed it again and stared out of the window.  
“A Study In Pink?” Lestrade asked curiously. John nodded in response.  
“You saved his life? How? Jeff was killed, wasn’t he? The cabbie.”  
“Er, yeah, well…”  
Lestrade understood, but instead of reacting in a Scotland Yard-ish manner, he gave John a slight smile.  
“Don’t worry, John. After I got myself involved with Sherlock Holmes, I’ve been quite the rule bender myself. Impossible to follow norms and procedures with that guy involved. But by god, we bend the rules for a reason, don’t we? It saves lives. Sherlock saves lives. And apparently as do you!”  
John smiled back at him. After a little while John saw the familiar sight of the Roland Kerr College, where he’d shot Jeff the cabbie through a window from the opposite building. Sherlock had been brilliant during that case, John thought, remembering how his own traumatized hands had stopped trembling when Sherlock had asked him to join him to “ _see some more_ ”. How he had been mentally man-handled by Sherlock’s deductive skills in the ride to the first crime scene in Lauriston Gardens, and how John had felt a shivering down his spine as Sherlock had told him all about the dead woman just by looking at her. Sherlock had truly impressed him and he’d continued to impress him every day since. John’s heart ached by the thought of it. The car slowed down and Mycroft got out first. Lestrade followed, and Mary stroked John’s hand before she, too, exited the car. John had to embrace himself before he followed suit, deadly afraid of what he might find.  
Lestrade immediately headed for the building where Sherlock had almost taken the pill with Jeff, the cabbie.  
“He won’t be there.” John said passively, and headed for the house on the other street. He knew Sherlock well enough to know that he’d never choose to live out his pain in the building where he shared a moment with Jeff. He’d have chosen the room from where John pulled the trigger and saved his life. Annoyingly poetic. Saved and destroyed by the same man. John’s guilt flooded through him and out his eyes. He didn’t want anyone following him. He wanted to be the one to find Sherlock. However, Mycroft insisted they all go together, but let John lead the way with a twenty-metre head start.

Inside the vacant building John could feel the same rush he’d felt the day he had shot Jeff. He tried remembering the exact route he’d taken back then, but it was seven years ago. He could hear his own heart picking up speed almost as though it could sense that someone worth beating for was growing nearer. Someone special. Finally John remembered where he’d run back then and picked up speed, his heart beating so fast he thought he might have a heart attack.

Finally he entered the room from which he’d pulled the trigger seven years ago. Even though he kept his eyes closed upon entering, he knew Sherlock was there. It was just one of those surreal, supernatural things. As he opened his eyes he went into complete shock for a moment. There, in a corner, was Sherlock, eyes closed, three syringes spread around him, and one in his hand, his sleeve tucked back revealing several bloody needle marks. His skin was dirty and almost transparent, like a ghost's. There was drool leaking from the corners of his mouth and he’d grown a horrifyingly ugly beard in his four weeks on the streets. For a moment John was incapable of doing anything and it wasn’t until Mycroft swooped past him and kneeled beside Sherlock, not giving a rat’s ass about the used syringes on the floor, that John awoke from his shock. Lestrade and Mary entered as well, and they both cried out in desperation. John hurried over to Mycroft who had become more and more desperate in the face of his brother’s horrible state.  
“Sherlock, brother dear, wake up! Please! Sherlock! WAKE UP!” Mycroft cried, losing his sense of self completely. John, quite astounded by this new nehaviour of Mycroft's, pushed Mycroft slightly aside and felt Sherlock’s pulse.  
“It’s slow and erratic, but it’s there. Mycroft, we need to get him to Bart’s.”  
An order like this seemed to be exactly what Mycroft needed to become his calm self again and he immediately left the room. John gripped Sherlock’s wrist and leaned down towards him.  
“What have you done? What in god’s name have you done?”  
“John, we’ll have to carry him or something.” Lestrade said, a hint of panic in his voice.  
“No need.” said a voice behind them. Anderson and his Empty Hearse team had entered the room along with two paramedics with a gurney. The paramedics ran over to Sherlock and carefully lifted his limp body up and provided him with a portable IV and oxygen.  
“How on earth did you get paramedics here so quickly?” Mary asked surprised.  
“I had them come along with us.” Anderson answered. “Mycroft told me about the potential relapse, and I figured if that’s the case, then we might as well be on the safe side.”  
“Good thinking.” a hoarse voice said, and they all turned around and looked at Sherlock who was, despite being on the brink of death, smiling weakly from the gurney. “I knew you had some IQ stacked up in there somewhere.” he continued. John grabbed his arm and squeezed it tightly.  
“Sherlock!” But then Sherlock passed out again. John felt his pulse.  
“Christ, I can barely feel anything. We have to get him out of here!”

  
The journey to Bart’s was horrible. John sat beside Sherlock and prayed harder than he’d ever done, wondering if his best friend would survive this. He looked down on the beaten human being below him, and despite all the wounds, all the dirt and the obviously illness manifested in his face, he still looked beautiful. The dark hair laid in long, knotty lumps over his closed eyes. John moved them away and stared longingly down at the tortured man who had been crushed down to this unworthy nothingness in the face of his first and probably last true love. John’s guilt built up to the size of Mount Everest. He leaned down and whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock. It’s me. John. Please. I’ve asked you this before and you listened to me then. Please listen again when I ask you: Do not die. Do not be dead. Do not die. Do you hear me? Give me another miracle, Sherlock. Please.”  
At the final word the ambulance pulled into its parking lot, ironically right underneath the rooftop from which Sherlock had jumped and faked his suicide. John had never thought that he would experience this kind of agony again and at the exact same spot. It was almost comical.

***

There weren’t much for the doctors could do, other than provide Sherlock with warmth and fluids and rest. They’d also put him on a decreasing dose of methadone because they feared that his heart might arrest if they cut him off drugs completely. John had protested this and told the doctors that Sherlock had only been using for a month, but they refused to listen. This refusal had sent John into such a horrific rage that he’d punched one of the doctors in the face and was now cuffed to a chair in the waiting area. He wouldn’t have been allowed to visit Sherlock anyway because there was a strict non-visitors-policy for patients in the ICU. John was completely devastated. Mary had gone home to pick up Sarah from the neighbour – they’d been away all night, and the sun was beginning to appear on the sky again. After an hour of restless waiting Mycroft appeared. Mycroft being Mycroft obviously had the key to John’s handcuffs and let him loose.  
“Now John. If you are able to keep your fists to yourself I have pleasant news for you. I’ve persuaded the doctors to take my brother off the methadone and I’ve given you privileges at this hospital, which means, you can now visit Sherlock in the ICU. However, he is still unconscious and will probably not be affected by your presence. I don’t believe in fairytales that way.”  
“Thank you, Mycroft.” John muttered and set off towards the ICU. He remembered where it was due to his older days as a junior surgeon at Bart’s.

***

John sat next to Sherlock for hours. He talked to him, read the newspaper to him, held his hand, shaved his face and even washed his face, hair, chest and arms. He had no thought for anything else, and had completely forgotten about the outside world. As he bent down to wash Sherlock’s face for the third time a sensation of warmth swooped over him. By god, he’d been stupid. He could hardly believe how stupid he was. Sherlock thought himself to be a study in stupidity. It was John who was the study. He looked down at Sherlock and stroked his thumb over his lips. This amazing god of a man, and John had failed to appreciate him the way he should have all these years.  
A movement caused him to look up and there, outside the glass windows was Mary, watching him while he was caressing Sherlock. His heart did a somersault, like it had done so many times the last couple of days. He glanced back down at his best friend and said to him that he would be back, not knowing whether or not he could hear him at all. John exited the room and didn’t dare to look at Mary. He’d been a bit too intimate with Sherlock for a married man. For a man with platonic feelings for his best friend. He should say something, but his throat was completely blocked by tons of emotion. Mary spoke, however.  
“Let’s sit down.” she said in a voice John couldn’t interpret. They sat down in two chairs outside the room.  
“How did you get in here?” John said, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.  
“Mycroft.” Mary answered shortly. “John…”  
John failed to answer. The ball was in Mary’s court, and John was afraid to play. Was the game on or was it over?  
“John… You forgot your backpack in Mycroft’s car and I collected it and I found this letter.” she said, holding up the letter John had found in his dusty chair in Baker Street.  
“Oh… yeah.”  
“You didn’t tell me that Sherlock loves you. Not like this.”  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t know how to tell you. It just felt so… like cheating on you. You knowing.”  
“You didn’t know?”  
“Not a clue.”  
“I see.”  
They fell into a few minutes of silence, until Mary took the reins of the conversation once again.  
“Do you love him, John?”  
“What?”  
“Do you love Sherlock the same way that he loves you?”  
The question hit John so hard that there was no way he could hold back the flow of tears that had been pressing behind his eyes the entire day. He tried wiping them and looked into the eyes of his wife, Mary, whom he loved so much. He really cared for her. But she wasn’t Sherlock. He looked down onto the white hospital floor. “Yes.” John said, voice round and wet from the crying. “Yes. I love Sherlock.”  
“And you love me.” Mary answered. John looked at her again and saw tears emerging from her eyes as well.  
“Yes. Yes, I do. I honestly do.”  
“But you love him a little more, don’t you? He is your one and only.”  
“I don’t know what to say…”  
“Don’t say anything. It’s all right, John. I’ve known for quite some time. I know you. I know how you look when you talk about Sherlock. I know how you look when you are happy. It’s one and the same, and it’s okay. I understand.”  
“You… you do?”  
“I’ve been through horse shit and worse in my life, John. And you’ve given me a life worth living and loving. You’ve given me Sarah and amazing friends, Sherlock included, and I did come after him, didn’t I? Your feelings didn't disappear just because you met me. And that's not anyone's fault.”  
“God’s Christ, I don’t understand…”  
“I want you to be happy, John. And you will be happy with Sherlock.”  
“But…”  
“There’s much to talk about. Right now your job is to get Sarah’s godfather sobered up and up and running, okay?”  
John couldn’t believe his own ears. Mary: His wife, former assassin and Intelligence Agent, gave him and Sherlock her blessing.  
"Mary..."  
"Give me some time, okay? I'll be fine."  
She gave him a sad smile, kissed him warmly, probably for the last time, stood up and left the wing.

 

***

There were no changes in Sherlock’s status the next three days, but John didn’t leave his side for a second. On the third day he was in the middle of reading the Daily Mail when the low, but stable sound of Sherlock’s heart rate suddenly increased slightly. At the same time John heard a muffled sound coming from Sherlock’s mouth. John got to his feet in no time and leaned over Sherlock’s bed, inches from his face.  
“Sherlock. Sherlock. Are you there? Are you okay?” Some seconds went by and nothing happened. John withdrew slightly and let out a disappointed sigh. At that moment Sherlock’s eyes opened and the endless beauty of blue started right into John’s.  
“John…”  
“Sherlock. My god, Sherlock, are you alright?”  
“I’m thirsty.” John spun around and fetched him some water from the sink in the bathroom. He put a straw in it so that Sherlock could drink more easily.  
“What happened?” Sherlock asked puzzled. “Where am I?”  
“Bart’s. You… we found you. Near Roland Kerr.”  
“You knew.”  
“I know now. You left clues, didn’t you?”  
“Yes. I tried to be subtle.” Sherlock smiled. “Had to see if you’ve learned anything over the years.”  
“No one leaves clues unless they want to be found.” John replied. “You wanted me to find you.”  
“You won the game, then, John –“  
“No, you don’t get to joke this one away, Sherlock. It wasn’t a game.”  
“Oh well.”  
“And it’s not to me either.” Sherlock looked John in the eyes. He was truly beautiful, despite his exhausted and pained look.  
“You obviously found my letter.”  
“Yes, I did.”  
Sherlock turned away, and John could see a hint of red appear in his pale cheeks. It pleased him, even though he knew that Sherlock was blushing of embarrassment. “You don’t have to turn away from me.”  
“Yeah, well, I have already.”  
John grabbed Sherlock’s chin and pushed him back so that they were facing one another again.  
“Please, John… I’m humiliated in every single way. Leave me alone!” Sherlock said, struggling to get out of John’s grip. John refused to let him go. “Leave me be, John!”  
“For a man with such a high intelligence and deductive skills you are extremely oblivious to obvious facts, you idiot.” John said, mockingly cross, with a wide smile on his face. Sherlock stopped fighting and looked at John.  
“What?”  
“Can’t you tell?” John said and moved his head closer to Sherlock. Their mouths were so close now that only a finger could fit between them. The air was charged, tense and full of seven years of unspoken emotion. The hopeless desperation in Sherlock eyes disappeared all of a sudden, and they were left only with wonder and amusement. John knew that Sherlock was watching his pupils and feeling his pulse.   
“You love me?” he asked John.  
“I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I’m in love with you in every non-platonic way you could possibly imagine.”  
Nothing more needed to be said. John let the last inch between them disappear and put his lips on Sherlock’s. After a puzzled moment Sherlock responded and their mouths closed in on one another’s. The kiss filled John with such warmth unlike anything he’d ever felt. The tips of their tongues met softly and their breathing became one. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Exactly how it was supposed to be.

***

**One year later.**

Lestrade and Molly were sitting next to eachother the sofa while Sarah was showing them her new dance moves. Mike, Harry and Harry’s new girlfriend, Eliza, were chatting away at the round table in the living room and Mycroft stood outside on the terrace with a light cigarette in his hand. He'd been much more present in their everyday lives since the incident at Roland Kerr. Suddenly Sarah turned around in ecstasy. Out from the kitchen came Mary, John and Sherlock, carrying a large chocolate birthday cake with five candles on it. They were singing _Happy birthday_ completely out of tune, but Sarah jumped happily over the floor and danced around the three adults as they put the cake down at the table. After the song had finished, John bent down and lifted up his daughter.  
“Now, make a wish, sweetie.” he said and moved her close to the candles so that she could blow them out. She revelled in the applause she received for blowing them all out at once.  
“Did you make a wish?” Sherlock asked and smiled widely at her.  
“Yeah, I wished I would be a detective one day. Just like you and Daddy.”  
“Yeah, let’s hope you become more like your Daddy, then.” Lestrade responded mockingly and they all laughed.  
The birthday party went on almost like last year, without the heavy cloud of worry. After Sarah had passed out after too much sugar, John turned to Mary.  
“God, we’ve created a truly beautiful little thing there, haven’t we?”  
“We sure have.” she said, smiling.  
Sherlock walked over to them and, his arm around John’s waist and gave him a kick kiss on the cheek.  
“Time to go, then?”  
“Yeah. We’ll pick her up at six tomorrow?”  
“Sure, whenever suits you best.”  
They hugged Mary simultaneously and left the flat.

It was already dark outside. As Sherlock whistled for a cab, John inhaled the fresh London air so deeply that his insides almost burst.  
“What are you smiling about?” Sherlock asked him. John didn’t even realize that he was smiling.  
“A year ago today I prayed I would go back to Baker Street side by side with my best friend. I prayed for you to live. And here I am – both wishes made true and then some.”  
Sherlock grabbed John tightly and whispered in his ear:  
“I love you, John Watson. I’ll never let you down again. That is a promise.”  
John shifted in Sherlock’s grip so that he could kiss him. They kissed for several minutes until they were both out of breath.  
“You’re a study in love, Sherlock. Now, let’s go home to Baker Street.”


End file.
